


I’m not the moon, I’m not even a star

by iheartloofas, juvenna_reverie



Series: Week Two of Quarantine [3]
Category: As I Lay Dying - William Faulkner, The New York Trilogy - Paul Auster
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24730744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iheartloofas/pseuds/iheartloofas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/juvenna_reverie/pseuds/juvenna_reverie
Summary: Jewel kidnaps Daniel Quinn to find his horse. He discovers that Quinn is a disaster who forgets to eat
Relationships: Jewel Bundren/Daniel Quinn
Series: Week Two of Quarantine [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788163
Kudos: 1





	I’m not the moon, I’m not even a star

Daniel Quinn wakes up on the floor with his hands tied behind his back. He’s not sure what he last remembers, but he thinks he was by the dumpster in the alleyway. Or maybe he was in his apartment, pretending it was home. No, that couldn’t be it. The young lady had sold all of his belongings, changed the lock on his front door. He thinks the last thing he remembers is the light. Or rather, the darkness slowly pushing the light back more and more. 

Maybe this is what happens when there is no more light left for him. 

But no, he sees a sliver of light under the door. Maybe he should be afraid; his hands are tied, after all. He’s written Max Work in countless similar scenarios, and it’s never a good thing. Idly, he notices that the texture of rope is different than what he’d imagined. It doesn’t matter. No one reads detective fiction for realism.

The door swings open and a man walks in. Daniel Quinn is momentarily blinded by the light. It’s a little funny, how light and dark aren’t so different after all. He closes his eyes, and he can see again through his mind’s eye. He imagines what the man looks like. Strong, probably. Tattooed, maybe a scar on his face. Angry, the kind of guy Max Work would be kidnapped by. 

“Wake up, detective,” the man says.

Daniel Quinn opens his eyes, and finds that he’s half right. The man is strong, but with a build that comes from hard labor rather than fighting. The anger in his eyes conceals fear. 

“I’m not Paul Auster, if that’s who you’re looking for,” Daniel responds pleasantly.

“Who’s Paul Auster? No, you’re the guy who wrote this notebook, right?”

The red notebook. He wondered if he’d ever see it again. It looks weird, seeing the notebook in someone else’s hands. Like the stranger is holding a piece of his soul. That notebook contains more of himself than the Max Work novels ever did, and some days he wonders if it contains more of himself than his own body. 

“I need you to find something for me. A horse. I can tell you who my father sold her to, but I don’t know anything from there.” Daniel Quinn can hear the hurt and frustration in his voice. He knows he will help the man; he has nothing else left to do.

But, “Why me? I write fiction and impersonate detectives.”

“Because I read your notebook. Because you can find my horse.”

What drew Jewel to Daniel Quinn was his single-mindedness. He didn’t stalk Peter Stillman; he ceased to exist outside of stalking Peter Stillman. For whatever reason, Daniel Quinn was a man who had nothing. Nothing to lose, nothing to hold on to. He would find Jewel’s horse through single-mindedness alone. 

Still, observing Quinn work makes him more and more uneasy. He’s right that Quinn will find his horse, and he’s right that Quinn has nothing. Nothing except this new purpose. He’s not sure when the last time Quinn ate was, let alone slept. 

And he cares about finding his horse, more than anything in the world, but, “Hey. Quinn. You need to sleep.”

“I don’t need more than thirty minutes of sleep a day. I need to find your horse.”

Jewel doesn’t even know how to respond to this idiot of a man. He takes the stack of papers Quinn brought from the library, detailing every farmer and their trades. “No, I’m pretty sure you need more than thirty minutes of sleep. Go sleep. I’m not giving these back until you get at least five hours.”

Quinn doesn’t react. He didn’t react when Jewel kidnapped him, and he followed Jewel’s plan without resistance. It’s unsettling. Quinn isn’t going along with Jewel out of fear, he just doesn’t care what happens to himself. 

Jewel originally thought Quinn’s greatest strength was his singlemindedness, was that he had nothing. Maybe that gave Quinn the energy to search relentlessly, but it was self destructive. It was eerily familiar to Jewel, how he let his anger consume him as a child. He tried to drown out the parts of himself that hurt. It didn’t work, and when Anse sold his horse all those years ago, and then his brother, he was gutted. 

Daniel Quinn did a better job drowning out his hurt than Jewel ever did. Maybe he cut it out instead, let himself become hollow.

Quinn leaves, going to a different room to sleep.

“Wait! Before you do, let me make something to eat,” Jewel blurts out, finding himself desperate to do something, but not knowing how to help. 

Quinn stops, stays.

Jewel goes to the kitchen, searching for something he knows how to make. He slams a pot down on the stove, fills it with water. Pasta. Pasta’s quick and easy. Preparing the food gives him something to think about, grounds him a little. He’s not quite sure why he feels so unbalanced by Daniel Quinn, and he doesn’t want to think about that now. The methodical slicing of onions reminds him, in a small way, of how he used to spend hours brushing his horse until her coat shone. 

When Jewel places the plate in front of Daniel Quinn, he eats slowly. Almost robotically, an echo of humanity. Jewel can’t help but wonder what happened to him, what sort of hurt he’s avoiding. He doesn’t know how to ask. He’s never felt this helpless since Anse sold his horse. In the window, stars (if they really are stars) shine brighter than the sliver of moon. It looks more like a painting than the greater world, untouchable, unchanging.


End file.
